


Playing with Fire

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, past Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, past Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23197390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: An infatuation turns into a unexpected and dangerous sexual game.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingon | Findekáno
Comments: 5
Kudos: 72





	Playing with Fire

**Author's Note:**

> B2MEM (after dark nsfw card) - Playing with Fire

Fëanor answered the door with a drink in hand. “He is not here,” he said in greeting and began to close the door.

Fingon’s foot slid just inside to keep the door ajar. “I will wait for him,” he said.

Fëanor licked his lips and drank the amber liquid from his glass. “It will be a long wait. He and his brothers went up to Formenos. I do not expect them back for several weeks.”

“I will wait,” repeated Fingon.

Fëanor lifted his brow, but stepped aside and motioned for Fingon to enter. As Fingon closed and locked the door, Fëanor said, “Last I checked, etiquette dictates that coming to call should be done in the morning, not after the light has turned grey.”

“You could have told me to leave,” said Fingon as he leaned his bow in the corner and removed his cloak. 

Fëanor followed Fingon into the great room, where the crackling of the fireplace drew Fingon to sit near to it. Fëanor remained standing. “Do you want a drink?”

“What are you having tonight?”

“Brandy.”

Fingon nodded and Fëanor retrieved another glass. After it was handed to Fingon, Fëanor sat across from him and said, “You can use his room while you are here.”

Fingon’s jaw hardened. “Probably not appropriate,” he said. He took a drink, shifted in the chair, and said, “I came to break up with him.”

“Oh.” Fëanor looked to the embers for answers. “I suppose your father--”

“The feud the two of you have has nothing to do with my decision.” Fingon tucked a braid behind his ear. “I am tired of making plans with him only to have him cavorting off without telling me, only to return and act as if all he did was take an afternoon walk when he has been gone months and years at times. If he would invite me with him or at least give me specific information, maybe we might have made it work. If he wants to be an irresponsible youth, I will not get in his way, but I am a grown man, and my desire is to have a relationship with someone who is an adult.”

Fëanor swirled the liquid in his glass. “I have no argument to provide against your words. He is more than thrice my age when I was married. You speak true; my sons are…”

“Irresponsible,” finished Fingon.

Fëanor leaned back in his chair. He sipped from his glass and considered Fingon’s assessment. “I blame their mother,” said Fëanor.

“So do I.”

Fëanor sat up slowly and looked over Fingon. “You do?”

“Indeed. To abandon one’s family is an irresponsible act. She has taught them that this behavior is acceptable. Her sons now follow suit.” Fingon raised his glass to Fëanor. “Here you are, staying home--why?”

“I have matters to attend to at court,” answered Fëanor before he could tell Fingon it was none of his damned business, except he was still surprised that he had found an ally in his half-brother’s heir. “There are projects I must oversee. I do not have the luxuries I once had when my wife was still here and two incomes fortified this household.”

“And no doubt, you are seeing to the needs of your sons, not her.”

Fëanor stood to refill his glass. “I have the means to manage it.”

“Is she really still your wife?”

The question jarred him, and Fëanor accidentally hit the side of the glass with the bottle. “According to her, no,” he answered darkly.

“Ah.” Fingon downed the rest of his glass and said, “Pity you still consider yourself attached to her thus.”

Slowly, Fëanor turned and stared at Fingon. “You are playing a dangerous game,” he warned.

“‘Tis only so if I am not just playing with myself.”

Fëanor narrowed his eyes slightly, and Fingon smirked. “You cannot make me believe your intention in inviting yourself in was to flirt with me, Findekáno.”

“A happy accident,” Fingon said carefully.

Fëanor carried the bottle back with him and refilled Fingon’s glass. “You are too young,” he finally said.

Fingon leaned forward. “I am too--you just said yourself, you were young when you--”

“I made a mistake. I should have waited.” Fëanor stared into the fire as Fingon sat back in his chair. “You should wait. Find someone good and kind,” continued Fëanor as Fingon rolled his eyes. “If your father finds out--”

“Who is going to tell him? You? The two of you can barely say hello,” Fingon said. “So unless you intend to write him a letter--”

“There is nothing to tell him, for there is nothing to tell!” Fëanor gulped down half the liquid in his glass. “I think, perhaps, you should let yourself out and go home.”

Fingon ran a finger around the edge of his glass, and then sucked the alcohol from the tip of his finger. “There is more to me ending my romance with Maitimo than his own bad decisions,” said Fingon. “I feel it would be unfair to him to continue. You see, I can no longer pleasure myself and think about him, because…” he looked up. “I think about you.”

Fëanor sat and stared. Why had he given the staff leave to go home early that night? Entirely alone, he shivered and felt like prey. “You should leave, Findekáno,” said Fëanor again.

“You keep saying should,” pointed out Fingon as he set his glass down and stood up. “Is that really what you want?”

Fëanor licked his lips. “You deserve the chance to find someone your own age. Someone who--” Fëanor paused as Fingon stepped closer. “I can give Maitimo your message when he gets back.”

Fingon placed his hands on Fëanor’s shoulders and straddled his lap. As he sat down, he said, “I can tell him myself when he gets back.”

“Findekáno...” It was half warning, half desire.

“Have you ever kissed a man before?” asked Fingon. When Fëanor shook his head, Fingon leaned down and gave Fëanor his first taste. “I know I am not a pureblooded Noldo, but I can pass for one,” whispered Fingon. “I hope that will do.”

Fëanor curled his fingers and sucked in air, refusing to look at Fingon. “You would do well to leave, Findekáno. This is your final warning.”

“You do not sound very convincing.” Fingon looked down between the two of them. “You do not appear very convincing, either.” Fingon reached down, but Fëanor grabbed his wrist. 

Fingon looked up to see a fiery gaze staring back at him. “You were warned.” In a moment, Fëanor had Fingon’s arm behind his head. Then the other wrist was in his opposite hand, and he did the same with it. Fingon grunted. “I gave you ample time.” Fëanor’s massive hands were able to maneuver so that Fingon’s wrists were held by one, thus freeing Fëanor’s right so that he could reach down between them. “Do you really want to continue this game?”

“It depends. Am I winning or losing?” asked Fingon

Fëanor cupped his hand at Fingon’s groin and manipulated his fingers just so, in a way that made Fingon arch his back. “I always play to win.”

  
  



End file.
